Section 32 / 39

And then some reaper burst out from above and squeezed between the doors. How I missed him! I recoiled at the last moment. The doors closed on the reaper's chitinous shoulders, preventing it from cutting off my head. It threw its scythes forward and missed me by just a few centimeters. The cabin went up. Another one jumped down from the wall and also rushed into the gap between the doors. I pushed it as best I could, forgetting about caution, but I was lucky—it fell and clicked its chitin somewhere below. The other reaper, trapped by the doors, thrashed wildly, bracing its back against the basement floor ceiling. The cabin rose inexorably. The reaper's muzzle slid right down to the floor, then the chitin cracked loudly, and the creature's cephalothorax fell inside the elevator. I stepped back in disgust.

I got out. Hard to believe, but I actually got out.

The cabin barely shook and almost stopped, covering the last centimeters. Light from the hospital corridor was already breaking through the gap between the doors. I waited for the doors to open, when the cabin jerked again—much harder—and the light went out! I stood there for probably two minutes, poking at buttons and trying to force the doors open, but nothing changed. And then below—it seems, in the elevator shaft—something clearly clicked. They're climbing! I don't know if they'll have the strength to turn the cabin around, but waiting to see what happens next is definitely not worth it. I felt the ceiling. One of the plastic panels moved easily. Until now, honestly, I'd only seen this in movies, and wasn't sure there'd be a hatch; but there was. A simple locking mechanism. Stiff, but working. Squealing plaintively, the hatch released me into the dark elevator shaft.

Reflections from the lit floor were enough to orient myself. I could try to open the doors one floor up—that's about three more meters, but climbing the cables isn't hard. And it even turned out simple to open the doors, so in a minute I tumbled into a dark corridor. Only emergency lights were working—so dim, as if they were powered by batteries from children's toys.

I was poorly oriented, but there's not much to think about here—the first stairs down will do.

Then I heard voices! Still distant, but quite distinct. I unmistakably recognized the abrupt commands of an assault group and quickly walked down the corridor.

I remember well how at first I almost ran, but then suddenly got scared that I'd fly out at them from around a corner, and in surprise they'd shoot me. And how I forced myself to switch to a walk. How I passed familiar glassed-in isolation rooms. And understood this was the same floor where they'd held me. Only the windows in each of the three rooms were broken. So the clones of Corporal Okamura are now free. But the voices were already so close that none of this mattered.

"Hey," I shouted. "People here!"

Ahead immediately rang out sharp commands and silence fell. I vividly imagined how they'd frozen now, holding tense fingers on triggers.

"Coming out to you! Don't shoot me!"

Just as quiet. They one hundred percent heard, but didn't answer. I stopped uncertainly.

"Hey!"

Finally from around the corner came a distant voice demanding I identify myself. I shouted my rank and surname and added again:

"Coming out!"

"Slowly!"

I even raised my hands just in case. After a few steps I came out to them.

Eight of them. Assault troops. Somehow frightened and exhausted. I expected to see relief on their faces, but seeing me, they only pressed their buttstocks harder into their shoulders.

"Thank God, barely got out," I said, smiling. "Got stuck in the elevator when those creatures..."

"This one talks," said one of the assault troops, not taking his eyes off me, and I heard doubt in his voice.

"They can talk," another answered dryly. "Stay put!!!"

The last shout was addressed to me, and I froze.

"Guys, I don't know what you thought..."

"Shut up," they exchanged glances. This whole crowd of tired soldiers had a completely confused look.

"Have him show his key card," someone said. "Show your key card!"

I confusedly patted my pockets.

"I lost it, guys, there was such..."

"In the head," one of them quietly commanded.

Someone else spat and lowered his rifle.

"Look how human-like they are..." he said slowly. "Beasts..."

I didn't even understand, I felt that now he would shoot me. In a moment. Just now—definitively and inevitably.

"Wait-wait! I'm human! I have a daughter! I just lost my key card!!! Don't lose your minds, guys, what are you doing?!"

I exhaled all this in one long tirade, filled with desperate, insane desire to live. Doubt ran across their faces. Someone lowered their weapon. Someone looked back at the one who said to shoot in the head. I exhaled, feeling the situation had turned in my favor.

"Get out of the way," said their commander, a young guy with a troublemaker's face that usually glows with excitement, but now was too tired. "Sit against the wall. Right here."

They still aimed at me. I sat.

"Test," the commander said.

"The last one," someone thrust something cylindrical into his hand, resembling a thick white pen.

"Give me your hand," he told me.

I extended it. They seemed to expect the biggest problems right now, because when the "pen" clicked, piercing my finger with a thin needle, they all seemed to drop their shoulders together and release air from their lungs. Something hissed inside the "pen," and it painfully sucked onto the wound for a moment.

"Done," said the commander, shaking the tube like a bartender with a shaker. "In a minute a green light will come on, and we'll send you to the exit. If it comes on."

"What are the options?" I squeezed out a smile. It was only clear they considered me a chimera. More precisely, feared I was a chimera.

"None, if you're human."

He looked doubtfully at the "pen" and started shaking it again.

Suddenly loud as a shot, broken glass crunched on the floor, and they turned to the sound—sharply, like springs.

There, where I'd just come from, in the middle of the corridor stood myself.

I don't know how to describe this. I once read something similar in fiction: a hero meets someone who looks like two drops of water like himself. And tried to imagine his feelings. Does he recognize himself like that immediately or think: "Where, I wonder, have I seen this guy?" Once I met a man who, according to my acquaintances, was like my twin brother. But he didn't seem similar to me at all. We had the same haircut, that's true. Maybe the general type. But nothing like the feeling you're looking in a mirror, or any other nonsense.

There wasn't any now either. Simply from around the corner, prudently raising his hands, came out me. The same me I was used to seeing in videos: a bit more hunched than I think of myself (I always straighten up as soon as I see myself from the side), with a stupid half-smile on his face (I hate it)—generally similar to me, but somewhat different from the guy in the mirror. He came out, stopped, somehow even ironically looking at the raised muzzles of barrels, and delivered a quote from what I'd said in the basement: "Maybe not necessary, guys?" and lowered his hands without command.

"Oh shit!" someone shouted and turned around, aiming between my eyes and at him too.

The commander still stood with my test in hand, forgetting it needed to be shaken. He looked confusedly at me, then at the double.

"Stay put, freak!" someone barked at the double, and he reluctantly raised his hands again, calmly smiling.

"What about the test, commander?"

As if remembering, he finally raised the "pen" to his eyes.

"Too soon..." he said either confusedly or fatalistically.

They should have shot him. Not even him, but both of us. By logic, considering the circumstances—just should and that's it. But for some reason they got confused. They clumsily raised their rifles but didn't dare to shoot, only turned their heads, looking questioningly at each other, at me, at the commander, at the tester in his hand, again at the double.

The double meanwhile smiled and walked right at them with the gait of a host meeting guests.

"Stay put!!!" someone barked, trying to put maximum threat into his tone. But by how he nervously regripped the rifle barrel, it was clear he wouldn't dare shoot after all.

Infrasound! It suddenly dawned on me—it's the infrasound. They're feeling incredible paralyzing terror right now. And only on me this time for some reason it has no effect.

"I'm shooting!" the assault trooper shouted again, and it sounded terribly false.

"Guys, at least let me smoke," the double said, smiling. "It's only three minutes."

Something thumped. The commander dropped the "pen," not taking his eyes off the double.

"Fire!" he somehow helplessly, desperately shouted, as if forgetting he himself was holding a weapon now. "Kill both! Both!!!"

I squinted. Nobody shot. They only aimed, tightly gripping rifle handles, and snorted like hedgehogs. From how the barrels trembled, it was clear they'd hardly dare more.

"Guys, maybe we can talk," the double continued. "Remember, like in the Bible..."

And calmly, even sedately, put his hand on the nearest rifle barrel, jerked it upward and tilted his head dog-like. Exactly like Vera asking: "How's Elza?"—preparing to sink her teeth into me.

"All this is vanity and chasing after wind," he announced.

The guy holding that rifle was breathing fast, whistling on each inhale, like a tuberculosis patient. The double turned the rifle so that now the poor guy was aiming at his own chin.

"Don't be afraid of him!" I shouted and suddenly guessed what would happen now. "Don't you dare be afraid!"

But the guy already pressed the trigger. Himself. And his skull shot into the ceiling in a bloody fountain.

"And the dust returns to the earth as it was," said the double and surveyed the rest of the soldiers with that same inquisitive look of a hungry fox.

These words sent frost across my own skin. And then the brave guys who were gripping cocked weapons and aiming at what they feared, suddenly all together turned the barrels and pressed them to their own chins.

"Don't listen!!!" I shouted. "Kill him!!! Don't listen!!! Don't listen!!!"

Seven shots thundered in a ragged volley. Like popcorn in a microwave. Bloody mist settled in a disgusting brown cloud.

We were left alone. The double approached me with an unhurried gait, tilted his head and peered into my eyes.

"A time to die and a time to be born."

If you're curious, this is an inexact quote. It's correct the other way around: first "a time to be born," and then "to die." But in the fact that I made the mistake in the basement (and now he repeated it) exactly this way, I even see a certain symbolism.

With a sharp "Hah!" I slapped him on the ears, cupping my palms like a boat—as hard as I could, and even stood on tiptoe from the effort. However he was nimbler, and where a moment ago was his head, my fingers met in a painful blow, aching to the very elbows.

"I'm not afraid of you!" I barked and thought how strange to shout such a thing at your own face.

The double stepped back and tilted his head to the other side. Throwing a brief glance at the floor, I lunged for the nearest corpse, about to yank the assault rifle from dead hands, but my foot landed on something round. I managed to think it was that same "pen," stretched into a painful split and crashed on my side, hitting my shoulder hard. He leaned over me, and I unmistakably recognized in his eyes that greedy expression I'd seen in Vera tied to the table.

"Going to eat me?"

He was silent. A shout rang out suddenly, and from this seemed as loud as a shot:

"Lieutenant!!!"

We both flinched and turned. Irma. The rifle in her hands darted from me to the double and back.

"Which one of you?!" she barked without unnecessary clarifications.

And I instantly throw up my hand:

"I'm human!"

"A time to scatter stones!" the double pronounces almost simultaneously with me.

With one precise movement Irma throws me the rifle. Right—we're too close for her to shoot from there. I managed to notice his face kept an impassive expression even when I raised the weapon, almost pressing the barrel to his nose. And pulled the trigger.

(Section 2)

We were in Irma's kitchen. Since she'd pulled me out of the hospital, several hours had passed. Elza didn't leave my side even for a step, and now she'd fallen asleep right in my arms. I tried to ask her about what happened to her when she disappeared. But she immediately cried, saying nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever.

Irma stuffed a first-aid kit with packets of hemostatic agents and now fussed with the fastener.

"This is the last night," she said. "Or second to last. The colony won't hold out longer."

I nodded silently. Didn't need to say it. Our camp had shrunk to an uneven strip of fortifications along the southern wall. Above it, like flying monuments, hung twelve landing shuttles. The passive levitation system consumed almost no energy, and they could hover like that for years. Irma told me Vandlik ordered them raised last week—during the mutiny. Reapers were pressing, people were dying in clashes almost daily. Daylight was getting shorter and shorter, and most of the time the sky was overcast with heavy snow clouds—electrical power was barely enough to charge weapons and for minimal household needs. Moreover, rumors about the disappearance of the arsenal had leaked. The last straw, funny as it is, was the administration's decision to refuse hot food preparation for soldiers and switch them to dry rations. Then about ten guys decided to seize the shuttles and organize evacuation on their own.

The attack on the launch pad was planned for dawn. The mutineers had numerical superiority, plus the element of surprise. But while the firefight lasted, Vandlik managed to raise the shuttles in automatic mode. A dozen engines that started simultaneously attracted a whole cloud of reapers. In the end, the mutineers and "black sleeves" had to unite just to survive. The launch pad was de-energized, but they couldn't hold it. The camp's borders squeezed even tighter.

Vandlik didn't lower the shuttles. Officially everyone was told there simply weren't enough forces to retake the launch pad and

there was nowhere to land the boats. This was also not far from the truth. But in reality the twelve shuttles hovering over the camp were insurance for Vandlik.

The thing is, the shuttle return automation is configured exclusively to recognize the face of a living and healthy control officer. So if something happens to Vandlik, the colony will remain here forever. And this simple truth was understood by every potential mutineer. The only way to return the shuttles without Vandlik is to land them manually from the cruiser through the remote control system. But the irony is that there are no people with pilot licenses left on "Three Crowns" at this point. Only security. I think the decision to lower the crew to the planet also came from Vandlik—she insured herself so no one would be tempted at the critical moment to do the same as once on "Artilleryman Hans." Thus Vandlik's power grew to absolute. Many people still believed that when push really came to shove, she'd lower the boats and everyone would fly.

...The radio on the table came alive, emitting a disgusting sharp sound—the "don't sleep" signal. It was broadcast every thirty minutes.

"Again..." Irma winced and waited for the electronic howling in the speaker to end. "Well, wake her."

A set female voice asked to respond on their wave in numerical order. Irma was assigned number forty-one, Elza—forty-two. I was still listed as dead.

"Elza... Wake up, little one... Elza!" I was waking her, but she didn't want to open her eyes.

We had to wait until our turn came and say our "not sleeping." The computer recognized voices. Irma said if you don't respond (or if your voice isn't recognized), a patrol will rush over.

In a few minutes our turn came:

"Forty-one, Irma Salvatierro. Not sleeping."

"Received," the radio responded. "Forty-second!"

I started rousing Elza again.

"Say into the radio, sweetheart... Say: 'Not sleeping'..."

She finally opened sleepy little eyes and whimpered.

"Don't want to... Da-a-addy!"

"Voice recognized. You can just say the number," the radio relented.

Thank her. She probably has a child herself.

"Forty-two, Elza Girshevich," Irma said. "Not sleeping."

"Received. Forty-third!" the radio commanded, and Irma lowered the volume.

Continuous sleep lasting up to half an hour was considered normal. Anything more was dangerous, therefore forbidden.

"When did you realize you can't sleep?"

"First assumptions appeared about a month ago... Right after your arrest. The last five days we haven't slept at all."

Irma was hastily gathering food. It felt like she'd set herself the goal of not leaving a single edible crumb here. She opened the refrigerator for the umpteenth time, critically surveying the emptied shelves. On the door stood the metal thermos very familiar to me.

"Is there mutagen left in it?"

"There is," Irma mechanically shook the thermos, raising it to her ear. "We don't need it anymore."

Those who slept longer than half an hour transformed into chimeras. They didn't realize this immediately, because at first there were only isolated cases. Then transformations became regular—about ten people per night. They quickly learned to kill chimeras. They guessed about the connection with sleep and started shortening continuous sleep time. They prescribed stimulants even for children. For a while there were no new transformations. But the mycelium also improved: the time needed for transformation decreased even more. Now just one hour of uninterrupted sleep meant a fifty-fifty probability of becoming a chimera. Two hours—one hundred percent. Only thirty minutes is guaranteed safe.

Chimeras became stronger. Faster, more perfect, smarter. Irma told me a lot about this, but that guy who took my appearance was enough for me. And those seven who blew their brains out just because he quoted Ecclesiastes to them in my voice.

"How did he do it?" I emerged from my thoughts, forgetting to specify what I meant. But Irma understood anyway.

"I think the reason is in us too. We don't sleep and because of this we're weakening."

"And why did he become me... Does anyone here even fear me?"

She shrugged, saying nothing.

"By the way, have you tried sleeping on something metal?" the question was completely inappropriate, but for some reason that's what came to mind. "Remember: the mycelium can't get through metal."

"You think we're complete idiots here?" there was no offense in her voice, just fatigue. "Metal doesn't allow a corpse to become a chimera. Or a dead chimera—to be reborn. But it doesn't protect the living."

"How does it work out that the living transform? You said you need to die for that!"

"Listen... There are many questions. Different ones. Only there are no answers. Understand?"

Irma swept a pile of chocolate bars off the door and threw them into the backpack. Dry vermicelli, canned goods (all there were) and even a kilogram package of sugar flew in there too.

"Why do we need so much sugar!"

"If we get stuck... In orbit or... All kinds of things happen..." and she crammed two more such packages into the backpack.

"They'll arrest you today," I suddenly remembered.

"They won't have time," Irma muttered. "For what, anyway?"

"Vandlik guessed you know where the arsenal is. I think she already knows I lied. She's just very busy with the reapers."

"If everything goes smoothly, by noon we'll land the shuttles. I think a mutiny will start."

"And where did you find so many pilots?"

"Found them," she shot her eyes around the room, thinking what else to take.

"Do they have enough qualifications? Landing shuttles isn't like taking off. I, for instance, wouldn't undertake it."

"They'll have enough. Don't interfere with thinking."

I fell silent. Just buried my nose in Elza's hair and closed my eyes. She's with me, and I won't lose her again.

It was getting light. Irma contacted someone on the radio. At least one call sign was familiar.

"Capybara on comms!"

"Don't sleep, you'll freeze!" Irma said, and I understood this was code.

"I have matches in my eyes," he responded.

"In each one?"

"Except one. Give me ten minutes."

"I'll give you seven. Or you'll be without an eye."

"Received!"

She threw the assault backpack over her shoulder and leaned down to take Elza in her arms. Then she touched my lips with hers. Carefully, as if asking permission. And a second later gently kissed me. And I wanted this kiss to last much longer, but she gave me only a second, and then carefully picked up Elza and pressed her to herself.

"Get dressed and let's go. We need to cross the border by eight."

Clouds hung right overhead like a washed-out gray pillowcase. The low sky seemed to have lain down on the ground belly-first, and the shuttles frozen in the air only intensified this feeling. From below they looked like iron coffins about to fall on our heads. Our feet sank ankle-deep in the brownish slush of melted snow and clay. A drizzle hung in the air. The cold instantly thrust its frozen fingers under my collar, making me draw my head into my shoulders. I carried Elza in my arms. It was painful to look at her—from lack of normal sleep, dark circles had appeared under her little eyes, cheekbones protruded on her face. About ten minutes remained until the next wake-up. Without opening her eyes, Elza hugged my neck. Irma adjusted her hood.

"The big hangar where the arsenal entrance is... That's now a cafeteria."

I looked at my watch:

"Unlikely there'll be many people."

"If we don't get stuck at the checkpoint. Verification at the entrance to the central sector is the longest. Chimeras have learned not only to repeat. They can meaningfully use whole phrases. Can't always tell the difference..."

"I saw there's some kind of tester."

"Yes, there is. We developed it. But there aren't many. Without serious reason they don't use them. They check with dogs, and if the dog reacts—then the test."

The central sector is storage facilities and several buildings around them. They also moved headquarters there. In case of alarm, the sector was de-energized, making it invisible to reapers. Therefore portable energy sources inside the sector are forbidden, and we'll have to surrender our weapons too.

Quite a queue had already lined up at the checkpoint. We approached its tail, and immediately some woman stood behind us. There were many with children. I looked at the faces around and couldn't believe this was that same camp I remembered—so emaciated and exhausted they were. The radios squealed, transmitting the "don't sleep" signal. Everyone started waking children. Elza burst into tears.

The woman behind us forgot her number. She seemed jammed from sleep deprivation: several times she repeated the previous one into the radio instead of hers. I had to prompt her. She corrected herself only on the second try and looked at me with some mixture of gratitude and depression.

Ahead flashed Capybara's broad back. At some moment he looked back, and I wanted to greet him with a nod, but he pretended not to notice us. Irma also looked away, as if she didn't know him, so I too started looking at my feet.

"She's about to vomit," Irma suddenly said, pointing at the woman. Indeed she looked bad. Constantly swallowing saliva and blinking frequently, as if about to fall asleep standing.

"Should we let her go ahead?"

I silently agreed and showed the woman to stand in front. Only afterwards did I think this mercy was completely unnecessary. We're in a hurry. But whatever... At least she won't puke on my back.

"Are you nervous?" Irma asked.

"Not very," I quietly answered. "Just... What if there are still lots of people there..."

"Capybara takes everything on himself. We grab the weapons and get out."

"I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt... We're sort of doing this for their sake."

"You're doing this for your daughter's sake," Irma turned away.

Her truth.

Ahead of us remained about five people. Capybara had long been inside. I watched as they checked those passing with metal detectors. And thought about my artificial kidney. If their device is sensitive enough, they'll notice and want a document. It'll turn out I don't have a key card, and then—that I'm not supposed to be among the living at all. I don't know if there's a mark about the arrest in the database... Doesn't matter. They'll call security anyway.